Apartment 15B

Every Monday for six months at eight o’clock in the evening, David Willoughby knocked at apartment 15B. And every Monday, a nude, flush-faced Amy Patterson threw open the door and pulled him in.

Their coupling could be swift, without a hello—hungry and hard against the wall—impatient hands scratching and pawing at sweaty flesh. Or it could be slow, in her double bed with kisses warm and slippery and orgasms gentle and rocking. But always it would last until their breathing hitched and their worn-out bodies shuddered.

Every Monday until this one.

At midnight, Amy slipped into her robe and admitted to herself that David wasn’t coming, her body and soul aching with his absence.

On Wednesday, Amy, wearing a threadbare T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, opened the door to a solemn David. She didn’t tug him inside. He didn’t shove her against the wall.